


Vitulus Ex Machina

by lesaliens



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s06e08 Rain King, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:23:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5610352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesaliens/pseuds/lesaliens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder ponders on Scully and X-files in one sad motel room in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. And makes her watch Hitchcock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vitulus Ex Machina

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all, first fic posting here so I thought I'd put out a lil oldie of mine. Hope ya like.

Now Fox Mulder isn’t the kind of person to believe in this sort of thing, but even if he was, he still wouldn’t believe that divine intervention would be a viable explanation for the crash landing of a cow, of all things, square on top of the one bed available to him in the entire state of Kansas, of all places. Even so, he struggles to come up with the words to justify his current situation that don’t include “deus ex machina”. He lets the phrase turn over in his mind again and again as he flips through channels in the blue-gray glow of the motel room.  
He chews on a sunflower seed and goes through his mental map of the case file for the forty-second time tonight, probably. His eyes stare blankly at the TV screen while his thoughts race a mile a minute, flipping again and again through the pages of X-files past, still seeking answers to questions no one else ever bothered to ask.  
For every case he takes on, it seems, for every lead that dissolves in front of them inches from his fingertips, he realizes more and more just how much all the small towns and spooky stories blend together. Mulder wonders whether if he tried, he could recall each rural town he and Scully chased monsters in, each dumpy motel he feigned sleep in for all these years; or if each discrete case has become the same story told a thousand times, the last page ripped out from every account. He pops another seed in his mouth and ruminates on this small town like every other small town in the middle of uncharted America, save a weather-borne cow flinging or two.

The click of the lock halts Mulder’s musings temporarily as Scully drags herself into the too-small room. She shuffles wordlessly from wall to wall like a shadow going bump in the night. As she sheds her coat, the television plays over the planes of her face and shoulders, hollowing her cheeks, the pale light turning soft ivory to stone. He knows Scully must really be exhausted when his well-documented claims of paranormal weather phenomena cited from cases dating back to the 1920s are met with no more than a tightening of her lips and a conciliatory nod before she grabs a handful of clothes, shuts the door to the bathroom and turns on the shower.  
He listens to the comfortable patter of running water through the paper-thin walls. He startles himself with the realization of how alien the sound is, distant and muffled, with an unmistakable familiarity he doesn’t want to think about. Mulder looks around the room, Scully’s room, for really the first time since he was so forcefully relocated. He scans across the half-opened suitcases and sparse pieces of crumpled clothing that litter the floor around them. His eyes settle on a light pink something that is likely a camisole draped precariously over the side of a bag. He lingers, listening to Scully’s shower like rainfall, until a pang in his chest pulls him away, back into colorless television light against peeling motel wallpaper. He thinks back to X-files and weathermen.

Scully emerges from the bathroom, fully clothed, with yellow light and some steam from the shower spilling out into the room with her. Mulder is surprised for a moment to see her in a t-shirt and sweatpants after so many nights of satin pajamas, and remembers a Scully in her oversized shirt and glasses amid X rays and paperwork strewn on the bed, turning down his offer to jog their first night on assignment. He almost smiles when she puts on her glasses and sits at the desk to read over some papers, the warm light from the lamp lifting the harsh shadows from her features. He flips through muted channels absently as she flips through case files. He interjects on impulse when the whir of her laptop invades the relative quiet of the room.  
“Hey, Scully.” she turns around, eyebrows raised partially in surprise, mostly by habit. He hesitates for a moment, realizing he has no follow up in mind. He isn’t even entirely sure why the harsh blue gaze of her laptop screen feels like such an intrusion. “Spooky Mulder reports can wait ‘til morning, can’t they? Maybe when I’m not in the room?” He nods to her laptop and hopes his smile makes it sound less like an accusation. Her expression is heavy but her eyes show amusement when she responds, “Mulder, I can promise you, the word ‘spooky’ is absent from every report I’ve written to date.” She begins to type a few lines while continuing, “Now, ‘crazy’, ‘foolish’, ‘absurd’, on the other hand…” He sees the glint of her grin betray her dry tone.  
“Scully, I hate to tell you this, but homework is for nerds.” At that, she turns back to reward his effort with her mouth slightly open in the same wry half-smirk he’s grown accustomed to after so many years.  
“Mulder,” Before she gets a chance to retort, he sits up and pats the bed, continuing, “Come on Scully, they’re showing _Psycho_ next.” He underscores the “Psycho” with a raise of his eyebrows and a grin for good measure.  
Scully holds his gaze in that searching way of hers before a second eyebrow waggle breaks a full smile through her controlled features. She dips her head in resignation and mutters a half-hearted, “ _You’re_ psycho, Mulder,” before turning off the desk lamp and shutting her computer.  
“As long as that one stays out of the field report.”

He watches as she tries to sit carefully on the edge of the single twin bed for a moment before ushering her, “No, here,” to the middle between his outstretched legs. “How else do you expect to have that pillow fight?” he can’t help but offer.  
“Mulder,” she warns emptily, and settles herself there despite it. “How do _you_ expect to watch the movie?” she protests.  
“I’ve seen it before,” he assures her softly. Too many times as a psych undergrad, but he doesn’t mention as much. He places his palm against her shoulder blade and runs his thumb up and down the muscle between shoulder and spine through her shirt. She allows herself to relax to his touch, letting stiff shoulders fall slack. She puts up little resistance when, eventually, his arms wrap around hers and pull her in to rest against him. No, she is not made of stone.  
Scully sighs after a moment, and Mulder feels the tension dissipate through the room as she grasps one of his hands. There they are, he thinks, huddled wordlessly together in their corner of this motel, watching monsters on the screen instead of chasing them this time. He traces light patterns on her arm with his free hand and feels her head, warm and heavy in the joint of his neck and shoulder. He wonders if she’s fallen asleep and glances down, but a flicker of her eyelashes negates the thought. He rests his jaw against her hair, slightly damp from her shower, and eyes the single armchair in the corner of the room like a condemnation.

He thinks back again to their cold night in the forest as she held him in her arms and sang him to sleep. He almost wants to carry a tune himself, but stays mute for fear of breaking the spell, of Scully realizing who and where they are and of FBI protocol. He tries to will Scully to fall asleep with his thoughts and fingertips instead; maybe then he can delay the inevitable. For all the holes in the wall they’ve spent sleepless nights in, an armchair for a bed was not without precedence. This time, though, the idea leaves him cold like the empty promise made by a pink camisole and the sound of a running shower. She squeezes the hand in her grasp in silent answer to his thoughts. FBI protocol be damned. She turns her head, eyes shut, and he feels the slight smile in her cheek against his chest. He lets the soft weight of her unravel the fear tightening his throat. Scully breathes out, and he kisses her hair in the blue-white light. As he commits her damp, floral scent to memory, Mulder thanks the powers that be for that damn cow through his roof. He wills himself to forget about spooky stories and Kroner, Kansas, ignoring its lonely weathermen and lonelier armchairs, at least for tonight.


End file.
